“You could be dead, and you’re not,” she whispered to her reflection, “so quit your bitching and get on with it.” She stood back up. “Whatever it is.” Then she grinned at her reflection and stood like Superman—she’d seen it on a TED talk—and threw her toiletries in the big sack.

Once she was dressed, Laura sat down at the patio table to sort out her life, at least that part she’d thought to cover with renter’s insurance. She called her insurance company and spent an hour on the phone with a very nice lady (or possibly gecko) named Amanda who helped her list her losses and start the claim. Laura prayed the check would come before her credit card bill. She called the utility companies that hadn’t even sent her a first bill yet and closed those accounts. She called her credit cards and changed her address. She called her student loan people. Finally, having fetched herself a fresh cup of coffee and taken three deep and cleansing breaths, she called her mother.

Laura’s mother, Dr. Eleanor Costello, taught at Columbia and lectured at home. She had been wrong on maybe three occasions in Laura’s childhood, and each time she’d blamed it on erroneous source material. She was a woman of deep intellect and cast-iron certainty, who never went farther south than Forty-Second Street if she could help it, and believed that pigeons held the secrets of the universe. Those last two parts were unique to her; the other attributes are found in most mothers.

One of Laura’s brothers answered the phone.

“Hey, doofus,” he said on hearing her voice. It was Jake, the brother just above her in age. He was married, lived as far downtown as he could, and taught at NYU. Laura was literally the only noneducator in her family, a mysterious exception frequently discussed in her presence.

“Hey, loser,” she replied, because he was her favorite brother. “What are you doing there?”

“Nice,” he said. “Can’t a man check on his aging parents from time to time?”

“Not if he normally never wants to come within twenty blocks of the apartment. What’s up?”

“Actually, it’s your fault I’m here, sort of.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Explain yourself.”

“Well,” replied Jake, “Mom has taken to texting all of us to ask if we’ve heard from you, although I bet she hasn’t reached out to you at all.”

“Not a word,” said Laura. “That’s why I’m calling. Is she OK?”

“Well, you know . . .” said Jake, and then his voice changed. “Here she is. Bye, goober.” And then he was gone.

“Laura! Baby! Are you OK?” As always, her mother sounded concerned.

“Hey, Mom,” said Laura, taking a deep breath and reminding herself she was thousands of miles away. “I’m totally fine.” She paused, closing her eyes. “But I have a new address to give you . . .”